


she's underwater again

by dansunedisco



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Bad wrong, Dark, Dark Jon Snow, Dark Sansa, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Modern Westeros, Sorry Not Sorry, canon events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 13:39:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10387884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: Sansa corners him in her father’s study.-For the prompt: "If you don’t want to talk about what happened, then say so. Don’t just lie and say it’s fine.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> okay, so, um.
> 
> this is 100% dark!sansa and dark themes, with kind of a mish-mash of modern au meets canon unhappiness. #sorrynotsorry but also kind of really sorry
> 
> title from ["bird" by billie marten](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=roFV6eoG3ao)

Sansa corners him in her father’s study. It’s a coward’s move to be sure, but he hasn’t given her much of a choice, or a chance, to hash out what… what _happened_ between them, and she’d be a fool to not at least _try_ to force his hand before he ran away; North, again and for good. She slides the door nearly-shut behind her with the aching slowness of someone desperate not to get caught, watching as the shaft of light from the hallway is swallowed by darkness. Only a sliver of his figure stays illuminated. Otherwise, he is a dark, brooding silhouette against the window.

She takes a slow breath. “Jon,” she tries, but her words don’t move him an inch. He continues to stare out into the rainy night’s sky, forearm pressed up on the frame over his head. She glances down and sees a crystal tumbler of something dark in his other hand. Irrationally, the sight annoys her. He caught one glimpse of her in the foyer and he turned on his heel and fled – apparently to the bottle of bourbon her father used to keep in the second desk drawer.

“Thirsty, I see,” she says waspishly. Then, because she can’t stop: “You could offer me a glass. It’d be the proper thing to do. Not that we’d know proper anymore, would we?”

“Sansa.” Jon bites her name out like a curse.

Her stomach tightens. Robb used to say she had a particularly incredible talent of pressing all the right buttons when she wanted to. All through school she’d lavished Jon Snow with passive-aggressive comments about anything and everything, digging her perfectly manicured nails under his skin because she _could;_ because she was good at it. Never once did he retaliate. Not even when she deserved it the most.

Then he left Winterfell and then she did, too; and for a while, everything was perfect.

But only for a little while.

Years passed before she saw Jon again, the two of them catching eyes over the weirwood casket that kept Robb Stark’s body. They were standing next to her father’s plot, Lyanna’s and her Brandon’s, too. The year’s Winter was unseasonably warm. It rained throughout the service. Sansa didn’t bring an umbrella that day. Still, she stayed long after the septon said the Seven’s final prayer, gaze fixed on fresh dirt and the wreath of blue flowers someone placed on one more Stark headstone.

Jon dropped his jacket around her shoulders somewhere in-between, the residual warmth of him leeching into her bones, and he stood with her in the freezing rain until she was ready to leave. It would’ve been too damn dramatic to call the both of them the last ghosts of Winterfell, but the Others take her if that wasn’t how she felt just then.

She kissed Jon that night; dragged him close and pushed him onto her bed, sucked bruises along his collarbone, left red marks on his back. For a few hours, she forgot. She forgot about King’s Landing, Joffrey and Cersei and her poor, honorable family, and not once did she stop to question why having Jon on top of her allowed the reprieve. But morning came and the dark-eyed boy she’d grown up with called everything a mistake.

“Things happen,” he said, tugging on his trousers and looking anywhere but her eyes, “when you’re fucked up and sad. I shouldn’t’ve-- I just shouldn’t have done, and I’m sorry.”

The funny thing is: Jon was right. Sansa is fucked up, and sadder than ever, and now here she is; making moves in a game with ever-changing instructions and rules. All she knows is, yes, _things happen_ , and she wants them -- maybe even needs them -- to happen again. She just needs to hit the right buttons.

She reaches out and touches Jon’s elbow. He doesn’t shake her off. A good sign. She steps in, closer. “If you don’t want to talk about what happened, then say so,” she says, and inches her fingers down and down, until she can tug the tumbler from his grip and set it on the nearby desk. “Just don’t lie and say it’s fine.”

He breaks with a sigh, dark and defeated, and turns, finally, to pull her into his arms and stroke a broad palm down her hair, her back, settling around on the curve of her hip. His fingers tighten against her, rucking the material of her short dress up an inch or two. “This isn’t normal. This is _wrong_ ,” he says quietly, almost as if to himself. “We’re--”

She presses up onto her toes and catches his mouth in a kiss he returns fervently. Heat blooms under her skin, sudden and familiar, and her hands curl sharply into the front of Jon’s shirt. It doesn’t take long for them to stumble back against the desk. He lifts Sansa up under her thighs to deposit her on the ledge as she practically rips the front of his pants open and guides his hard cock into her, already wet and waiting. He starts slow and sweet, but she urges him into a fast rhythm.

The sex is quick, but no less satisfying -- Sansa muffling her moans into Jon’s neck as an overdue orgasm burns through them both -- and they hold onto each other long after the fire has tapered out.

“Come to my room tonight,” Sansa says afterward, fixing her clothes and pretending his semen isn’t sliding down her inner thighs; she means for the words to be seductive or maybe even demanding, but even she can admit she sounds like she’s begging. Even so, Jon kisses her temple and nods his agreement.

A mix of elation and guilt settles over her like a shroud once she leaves the study, a strange and sick sort of afterglow, and she stops at the family portrait at the end of the long hall to – to do _what_ she isn’t even sure. To remind herself? She swallows hard and studies the faces of her family, the likenesses of each long gone. These were simpler times, she knows; when a half-brother was just a half-brother, and nothing more. She touches the frame and moves on.


End file.
